Econfina RIVER greetings, Hikers!

That’s right, RIVER.  You’ll recall a while back that I wrote to you of Econfina Creek.  Well, if you walk far enough in an easterly direction, you’ll find the Econfina River.  Confusing?  At first, yes.  But then when you consider the Swiss cheese nature of the geology in this region, it all begins to make sense. 

I’m writing to you from the municipal meeting hall of the town of Shady Grove, Florida.  How, you must wonder, did I get access to such an important and influential venue from which to write to you? 

Well, I did it by showing up to the Shady Grove Grocery (established 1936) yesterday evening around six.  The grocery is, in fact, the town hall, and it’s in session at 0600 daily.  The elders gather here every weekday morning without fail, coffee cups in weather-beaten hands, their Stetsons set as square as their jaws.  Theirs is a routine pleasure, a pleasure woven from generations shared triumphs and sorrows.  There is a feeling of warmth and familiarity among them that kindles a pathetic envy in uprooted and transplanted humans such as I.  Before I die I want to know just one person as well as these men know each other. 

I came to be at the grocery after a long day on the trail.  It was one of those days when daylight and temperature compete to see how low they can go.  Trust me, hikers, the smart money was on Frigid Fahrenheit by a chilly nose.  FTA Map 12 depicts a store at Shady Grove, just a few asphalted miles north of the trail.  I was headed there for reprovisioning, refitting and, by the looks of things, a satisfying thawing.

And that’s when I encountered Mr. Albert O’Quinn.  Mr. O’Quinn is what they call a level-jawed man, that is, a man whose chewing tobacco juice creeps from both corners of his mouth in equal measure.  He’s one of those ageless people with whom encounters are always interesting and educational.  Yeah, he’s old, but he’s strong and hard-working and possessed of a good sense of humor.  That sort of comportment has the effect of slowing down the aging process, or so I’ve lately come to notice.

I heard Mr. O’Quinn coming before I actually saw him.  You see, he was at the helm of a motor grader, a substantial piece of Peoria Cat iron that can render smooth the most impassable roads with single pass of the massive steel blade slung beneath its skeletal frame.

The initial exchange between he and I went some thing like this, when, as he pulled up next to me, he brought the grader to a halt. 

“What in the wor-ald are you doin’?  There was a squint to his ball cap-shaded eyes and the hint of an amused smile on his face.

“I’m hiking on the Florida Trail.” I said this casually, matter-of-factly.  But it was all I could do to keep from laughing at the look of genuine puzzlement on his face.  My amusement at his query and his equal amusement at my reply caused him to shut off the idling diesel and climb down to my pedestrian level.

Weelll, one thing led to another and by the time we were done exchanging secret decoder rings he offered to give me a ride to the store at Shady Grove – if he could find me down the trail – once his day’s work was done.  I walked east and he kept grading west.

It all worked out, yes it did.. except that he gave me a ride to a different store, one in Erdu, Florida.  Kinda behind where I was headed, but still very appreciated.  But not to worry, ‘cause I hadn’t been in Erdu long enough to learn how to spell it before a fellow named Tony Russell offered to cart me back east again. 

Tony’s a Son of the Confederacy, a kind and generous family man whose roots run deep in the sandy soil of Taylor County.  We spoke of heritage and history and the confounding perceptions of both as they apply to the south.  He has one of those faces – it’s in the eyes, I think - that convey a look of sadness without respect to his mood.  He has a ranch where he breeds Belgians, a Clydesdale-type draft horse.  He’d whup me for making the Clydesdale comparison and I’m making it now only because virtually everyone knows what a Clydesdale looks like.  Well, imagine a Clydesdale after graduation from Marine Corps recruit training at Parris Island and you’ll get some idea of what a Belgian looks like.

Soooo, there I am, trailworn, shamefully gamey, feelin’ the hawk, and jonesing for a cup of joe.  You know, thru-hiking.  Well, it’s just about that time when the sparkling lights of the Shady Grove Grocery come in to view.

You know, hikers, how some places just have a friendly look about ‘em?  Such a place is the Shady Grove Grocery.  It’s a slice of heaven built of white clapboard and roofed in tin.  White icicle Christmas lights hang from the eaves, a Neon “Open” sign dangles in the window, a porch swing invites one to sit a spell and the always-on coffee pot makes it easy to cast that spell into second cup.

Unbelievably, those amenities don’t even hold a candle to the prettiest thing about Shady Grove Grocery (and Oasis). That would have to be Carrie Albritton.  She was holding the place down when I showed up and it was she who won my undying devotion by putting on a fresh pot of coffee when I, Swamp Thing, slimed through the door. 

Carrie is the drop-dead beautiful fiancée of the owner, Jason Heartsfield.  They are to be married in May, and they might just be the handsomest couple Florida ever produced; I know for certain that they’re the friendliest.  Carrie offered me all the land behind the store for my camping convenience and a last cup of coffee to heat my walk to the loving arms of Big Agnes. 

For a guy whose trail magic meter has stayed pegged since he stepped on to the trail, this is the sort of thing that bends the dadgum needle.  I’m gonna need to buy a new meter if I’m to survive this trip.  One that goes all the way up to “That’s Unbelievable!” or, “You’ve got to be kidding,” or “No Way!”

The urgent need for such a meter showed itself the this morning when Jason handed me a bag with a clean, springtime fresh towel and wash cloth.  Yup, they have a shower at the Grocery, and they really, really, really wanted me to use it.  OK, it had been a couple of days… yeah, yeah.. maybe a week or two…

Jason’s Mom and Dad invited me to wash my clothes at their incredible 100 year-old house across the street from the store.  His Mom slipped in one of those little papers that make your clothes smell really good into the dryer.  And she wouldn’t hear of me leaving the house until I agreed to take a smoked sausage sandwich with me.  Are you feeling the love?  Good stuff, ain’t it?

And now, it’s 1600 and here I sit.  Clean, pleasingly aromatic and delightfully caffeinated. Now that you know where I am, go get yourself a cup of coffee and come back.  I want to tell you of where I’ve been, because the last 40-ish or so miles have led me through some of the coolest terrain in the world.  Yeah, it’s that cool, hikers.  With apologies to Mohammed Ali and Joe Frazier, I can only describe it as the “Thrilla in Aucilla.”

You know, I should get a cup, too.  What’s that?  Jason’s mom is cookin’ up pork chops with greens and corn bread and is inviting me to eat with them? 

Yes Way!  And a country-fried, right out of the oven cheers from the Florida Trail.  Let’s finish this conversation after dinner, shall we?  Mike

….Man, I have got to get another magic meter.  This thing is toasted.